


Curiosity Killed The Cat

by JayEz



Series: Our Final Problem [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bondlock, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV John Watson, POV Q, Pining, Q is NOT a Holmes, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Moriarty walks away from the wreck with a split lip and a thin trail of blood trickling down his temple, straightening his suit and grinning at no one in particular. </em>
  <br/>
  <em>Q breathes hard. Stares at his hands.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Loyal in adversity.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Mycroft is safe. The game will go on.</em>
</p><p>This is the aftermath. </p><p>  <strong>[Sequel to "Loyal In Adversity", that Bondlock fic that is <a href="https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/support-our-fanfic-inspired-short-film-the-hacker/x/10328580#/">being turned into a short film</a>]</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiosity Killed The Cat

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back in this verse, hooray! Only with an interlude to set up the next part since RL is keeping me too busy for more, unfortunately. So the “real” sequel will take a while longer, but I've been really inspired for this verse lately =)  
> More on that in the end notes... *grins-myseriously*
> 
> Also, this might not make much sense without having read “Loyal in Adversity” first. But I’m starting with the culmination point of part I, so it might be okay. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Depiction of (not too graphic) animal death. I’m so sorry.

_A terrifying thought dawns on Q just as the car takes a corner: what if a plan is in place but fails? What if the surprise and outrage as the handcuffs closed around Moriarty’s wrists was genuine, and Q had never been meant to hack that video feed?_

_Then Moriarty’s men will act. Sherlock will die and Moriarty will expose Mycroft in revenge for letting Moriarty get arrested. A criminal of his calibre will have documents that can serve as incriminating evidence and ensure Mycroft’s incarceration for treason. Moriarty will have won and the country’s most brilliant minds will either be dead or incarcerated._

_And only Q can prevent that from happening._

_Eerie calm floods him as he reaches a decision, quickening his fingers as they fly over the keyboard. He hacks the TfL easily, one eye on the feed tracking the police van. He is going to delete every trace of his involvement later; whoever is going to investigate the accident will find nothing to tie anyone to the glitch._

_It works perfectly, the lights switching at the crossroads half a minute later than automated to. The man in the flashy German sports car presses his accelerator to the floor and darts across the square. The police van rams into him in a perfect ninety-degree angle, pushing the vehicle for several metres until another car careens into the van from the side, tipping it over._

_Q activates his coms and informs emergency services, his voice shaking as he keeps his eyes fixed on the traffic feeds, infusing it with enough worry that no one will ever suspect him._

_The policemen that exit the damaged police car before Moriarty drop to the ground like toy soldiers. Q would bet anything the invisible sniper is none other than Sebastian Moran, but he is too skilled to end up caught on CCTV footage._

_Moriarty walks away from the wreck with a split lip and a thin trail of blood trickling down his temple, straightening his suit and grinning at no one in particular._

_Q breathes hard. Stares at his hands._

_Loyal in adversity._

_Mycroft is safe. The game will go on._

*

Mycroft pats him on the back when no one is watching. It is such a fleeting gesture but it serves to anchor Q, calm his mind, which is still replaying _Four casualties_ over and over again on a masochistic loop. 

Mycroft does not thank him verbally, yet his eyes speak the words louder than the man himself ever could. Q takes a deep breath and forces his hands to stop shaking. 

The debrief is lengthy. Four people died – two policemen, two civilians, including the driver of the German sports car. M asks Q to look into the traffic light glitch once the analyst on the case has failed to uncover anything, and he has to bite his tongue in order to stifle the hysterical bout of laughter rising in his chest.

Q obeys, though he does not have to lie when he informs M that there genuinely is no trace of any external influence.

“Then what am I supposed to tell the Prime Minister?” M snaps, beginning to lose his usually so unshakable temper. 

“Sir,” Q tries to assuage him, “we know from Semyon Somerton’s hard disk that there is a hacker of immense capabilities in Moriarty’s ranks. And frankly, there is a lot less skill required to manipulate traffic lights without leaving a trace as one might think.”

“Oh, so I’m criticising the government’s cyber security and not excusing a Secret Service fuck up?” 

Q swallows and nods since he does not trust his voice at the moment. M sighs, running a hand through his greying hair. 

“Fine. Go home, Q. Rest. Be back later.”

It is already two o’clock in the morning on a Sunday and Q knows better than to argue. He is not going to find any sleep tonight, yet maybe he should try and compose himself outside the agency. Cuddle Zed, do some recreational coding until he feels more at home in his own skin again. 

So he leaves, powering down his computers and mailing instructions to R’s inbox for when she turns up in five hours, even though it is her official day off. A crisis never fails to summon her to HQ. 

His house block is dark when he reaches it. Most tenants hold high-pressure jobs which means they sleep when they can. Q opens his front door, ready to lean down for Zed when she inevitably rushes towards him to be petted and fed. 

Tonight, however, Zed seems to be in a strop. Maybe she is still mad for the night Q spent at HQ instead of at home where Zed could annoy James and him. Not even flicking on the light summons the cat. 

A tinge of worry creeps up Q’s spine and he reaches for the gun hidden near the coat rack, exhaling in relief when his fingers close around the cold butt of the weapon. He walks past his bathroom door on the left and bedroom door on the right, listening intently for any sound out of the ordinary. None are forthcoming. 

Then he sees it. 

Zed is lying on the floor, at the level of the television set between the living room area and the kitchen, pale moonlight falling in through the window and illuminating what the hallway light cannot reach. There is blood. Not much, but enough that in theory the loss of such an amount would suffice to kill a small animal. 

Zed is not moving. 

Q’s chest and throat tighten as he approaches, gun raised half-heartedly, his knees shaking and making it difficult to keep his balance. 

He can see it clearer once he has reduced the distance to a meter. They slit her throat and gouged out her eyes. 

Bile rises in his throat and he dry heaves, sinking to his knees with his back against the side of the sofa. His eyes remain glued to Zed, her fur almost shiny in the moonlight while his mind tries to make sense of the sight. It does not compute. Cats have nine lives. Zed has survived infections, and Q being kidnapped and gone for three days. Zed cannot be… 

“Oh, god,” someone says, though it sounds as if it were far, far away, nowhere near Q. 

A hand is on his shoulder and Q flinches away, collapsing in on himself, gun forgotten on the floor beside him. The person pushes it away. It makes a grating sound as it slides across the hardwood floor. The blood will leave stains, Q realises. 

“Q?” 

Someone is saying his name, softly, as if they are talking to a scared animal. Maybe he is. Was Zed scared? Did they slit her throat first? Or start with the eyes? 

A warm weight settles against his side, pressing against his upper arm without insistence. It is just there, a steady presence. It draws Q’s attention, little by little, until he can discern the navy blue cloth of one of James’ suits, until he draws the right conclusions based on the evidence surrounding him. 

“James?”

“I’m here,” the agent says, lifting a hand, palm up, and slowly placing it around Q’s shoulders. 

It takes another long, drawn-out moment until the veil that seems to be dulling his senses lifts and his thoughts begin to clear. Q finds himself huddled against James’ side, burrowing closer to the warmth and comfort his body offers up so freely, so naturally.

He pulls back gently, not yet ready to meet the other man’s eyes. 

“It was Moriarty,” Q whispers eventually, his voice dull and hoarse. “Or one of his men.”

“Because you caught him.” It isn’t a question. The conclusion is not hard to draw. 

Q nods. “The eyes – it’s,” he has to swallow down the wave of nausea the mental image evokes before he is able to continue. “Symbolic. I saw too much. It’s a warning.”

“It’s bloody cruel, that’s what it is,” James curses, his grip tightening on Q’s shoulder. “How old was she?”

“Six.”

Not even James Bond seems to be able to think of anything to say to that. They fall silent, James’ hand never pulling away from around his shoulders. 

“I should…” Q stops, unable to complete the sentence. He glances over to where Zed is still lying and thankfully James understands.

“Do you want to build her something or will a shoe carton suffice?” James asks softly while his right thumb is rubbing circles into Q’s skin through two layers of fabric. 

“I don’t think I should handle tools right now.”

James nods, slowly pulling his hand back towards him. “I’m going to look for something nice. Stay here for as long as you need.”

“I’m not a bloody invalid,” Q snaps, finally meeting James’ eyes. He regrets his outburst immediately when he sees the mellow expression on James’ face, which does not change one bit as he waits for Q to take a deep breath and mutter an apology. 

“It’s quite alright.”

James finally rises to his feet and Q tries the same, but his knees are still wobbly and it takes longer than it should to manoeuvre himself upright. His bones feel heavy, his body numb. 

Bond emerges from his work area with a battered looking cardboard box, the material frayed where Zed already attacked it with her claws. She couldn’t climb into that one because until a few minutes ago it held spare computer parts for Q’s tinkering pleasures – not that she didn’t try. Q blinks the tears away stubbornly. 

James offers the box to him, though Q hesitates. He doubts he will be able to place Zed’s body inside without shedding any tears and as much as he and James have fallen into this… this thing, he doesn’t need 007 to see him cry over a pet. 

Bond simply places the box on the floor near Zed’s paws, says, “I’ll make some tea,” and retreats to the kitchen. 

When Q joins him at the kitchen island, the tea is cold and his eyes dry, but the box is closed. Q stares at his hands, speckled with blood.

The game never stops. 

*

Mycroft Holmes is sitting in the visitor chair. 

It is the first thing John registers when he wakes up for a third time. The first was too fleeting, the second… John swallows. 

“I shan’t ask you how you are feeling, John,” Mycroft says, “since it would be an exercise in futility. I am here to tell you that Sherlock has been banned from your room as you requested last night.”

Right – Sherlock, with so much sadness in his eyes when all this time he’s been so straight-faced and collected. Sherlock, who didn’t think it might be necessary to tell him that his own wife is _working with Moriarty_ , that the mother of his _child_ – But of course, Mary is dead now. Sherlock shot Magnussen for her and now John shot her. Of course Sherlock would be sad. 

His hands are balling into fists against the prickly hospital sheets. 

“I would also like to offer my assistance in finding new living arrangements for you.”

John turns his head slowly until he is looking the older Holmes right in the eye. He must have deduced the question from his expression, because Mycroft continues, “I doubt you wish to return to Baker Street after all that has transpired. A modest flat near St Bart’s should do.”

John nods, genuinely grateful. He is in no condition to go flat hunting. 

He read his chart, the second time he woke up. The vascular surgeon patched his GSV up all right, but he still lost a lot of blood. The hospital is going to keep him at least a week, to monitor his recovery. Recovery. John almost snorts. 

“Would you like to see her?”

John can’t really answer the question. Not Mary. He’s seen all of Mary for a lifetime. He isn’t so sure about Beth, though, if he wants that. Remember her like that. He can say goodbye in other ways. He didn’t get to say goodbye to most of the men he lost in Afghanistan. 

Mycroft lets out a soft breath, barely audible even in the silent room. “If you decide, there is an SIS officer stationed outside your room. Simply inform him and it shall be arranged.” 

John nods. 

_I’m so sorry, John._

Mycroft inclines his head and gets up, gathering his umbrella as he does so from where it was leaning against the chair. He doesn’t say anything else before he leaves the room, but then again, Mycroft was never one for excess platitudes. 

_I failed, it’s my fault, John._

Sherlock’s pleas echo in his mind. What did Sherlock want? For him to say, _No, it’s not your fault, no one could’ve figured it out_?

But then that’s not true, is it? Sherlock had the clues. He just couldn’t put them together. He kept secrets, hid vital information. And now John neither has a daughter nor a wife, and if he’s being honest, also no best friend. 

It hurts, even through the haze of morphine and emotional numbness. To think John used to – 

He stops the thought in its tracks. Chasing down ‘what-if’s and ‘could-have’s will not bring Beth back, will not change the fact that Sherlock cared more for Mary than he did for John, that Sherlock murdered someone for Mary when John shot a bloody cabby the first night they – 

His fingernails are digging into the skin of his palm, hard enough to draw blood. He will get on with his life. He has done it before. 

This time, though, is different. He doesn’t wish for Sherlock to come back to him, he just wants to never see him again. 

John forces his hands to relax. He’s had to overcome a lot in his lifetime. If he could do it then, he’ll do it now, too. He’s going to be fine. 

Eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> As a catlover, I’m deeply sorry for this… but I couldn’t get Moriarty to do anything else.  
> Also, John’s a stubborn git, not listenting to authors who _know better than him_ when it comes to the inner life of certain other characters. *sighs* On the other hand, where would all the great conflict and feels come from otherwise?
> 
>  **BRILLIANT NEWS!** :  
> The Hacker, the short film based on this fic, is upon us! We’re shooting from 5th to 8th September in a barn in my hometown with an international team and highly skilled leads to portray fem!Mycroft and young!Q.  
> I've chosen the flashback of Mycroft and Q's first meeting in LiA since, among all the scenes I've ever written, this is one of my favourites and it makes a brilliant short film =) 
> 
> If I've peaked your interest, our [campaign page here](https://igg.me/at/thehacker) or our [Tumblr](bondlocked.tumblr.com) will provide more details! Maybe we can even convince you of supporting us by donating - make sure to check out our [awesome perks](https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/support-our-fanfic-inspired-short-film-the-hacker/x/10328580#/) =)


End file.
